not supposed to hold
by Sednareinedeseaux
Summary: They find themselves in a bit of a tricky situation. Arthur offers a distraction. Ficclet Arthur/Eames.


Written for a prompt sent anonymously on my Tumblr: "Stripper!Arthur and Business Man!Eames... Go!"

So, here, anon. I largely deviated from the prompt because I tried to write it as an AU and couldn't. You still get stripper Arthur and businessman Eames, though. Kinda.

Inception doesn't belong to me.

* * *

**not supposed to hold**

There isn't a corner of the club that isn't full of projections. The mark's mind isn't militarized, if Arthur's investigation is to be believed, but Eames isn't stupid enough to think that it'll make any difference if things go south. There are only three of them down here – Eames, Arthur, and the old friend-turned-enemy of Cobb's who requested their presence in the first place. If they screw up this one, the sheer paranoia of the man will be enough to make up for his lack of training. Jesus. Even _Cobb's_ mind hadn't been so heavily populated.

"I hope this isn't going to be a problem," Arthur says quietly. Eames doesn't answer. Stevenson seems to be doing okay. He and the mark (Phillips) are conversing easily, drinking fruity cocktails and sweeping lazy glances at the boys onstage. Eames adjusts the tie around the slim neck of the man he's impersonating, one of the mark's closest friends. So far so good.

"I can get us out quickly if it becomes one," he murmurs.

Arthur nods. "Good. I'm counting on you here."

"Ah, yes." He represses his grin. He can't let his cover slip now. "We've yet to address why exactly you ended up dressed like that." His eyes roam up Arthur's body. "Not that I'm complaining."

"Shut up," Arthur says, but his voice his lacking ire. None of them wants to state that the situation, while amusing, is still worrying. Certainly the sight of Arthur in black leather pants and an open shirt is one he'll remember with fondness (and more than his fair share of jerking off), but it still doesn't explain how it happened.

Untrained marks aren't supposed to be able to change the dream like that. First of all, the dream was supposed to be set in a bar, not a strip club, let alone a _gay_ strip club. And, more worrying still, Arthur wasn't supposed to look like he belonged with the other _performers_. The moment one of the projections had seen him, the slacks he'd been wearing had changed shape and texture, and his shirt had opened. He had been unable to change them back.

"Think Phillips was trained?" Eames asks, although he already knows the answer.

"No," Arthur says, looking tense. "With the inborn security the man has? We'd have been out the moment we were in."

"So what do you think? The guy was so good at hiding his dirty little secret that even you couldn't find out?"

Arthur shakes his head. "This is different. Phillips has had relationships in the past few years. Long-lasting, _heterosexual_ relationships. He was married a few years back. The wife left with their two kids, but the kids are his. I checked."

"Repressed, then?"

"Probably."

"His whole life?"

At the other man's nod, Eames grunts, "Damn."

"Yeah. This could definitely be a problem. If he only lets out the fact that he's homosexual when he's dreaming... it won't be long before he realizes all of this isn't real."

"The projections won't attack us unless he knows he's being targeted."

"I wouldn't count on that," Arthur points out. "Not with that kind of security. And not with Stevenson as the extractor. He's good, but he's not good enough for this."

"So what do we do?"

Arthur frowns. "We need a distraction," he says.

"What kind of-"

But Arthur is already gone, carefully making his way through the crowd. He loses his shirt somewhere along the way and emerges onstage, naked from the waist up.

Eames wants to laugh. Arthur is very obviously lost up there, has no idea what he's supposed to do. He looks at the other men – boys, really, none of them above twenty-five, but Arthur has this kind of agelessness to his features that makes it impossible to determine if he's eighteen or thirty-eight – and tries to copy what he sees. And all humor seems to leave Eames at once.

Because Arthur may be awkward, but the mark's eyes have instantly fallen on him, and, shit, Eames can't blame him. Arthur's movements are shaky and amateurish, yes, but his skin is painted gold by the light. His shoulders, his hips, his arms – he doesn't need to pole dance to make them look beautiful. He turns his back and the shine of his sweat-slicked complexion makes Eames want to lick and touch, makes him want to abduct Arthur right now and devour him whole.

Phillips appears to agree. He's sitting with Stevenson in one of the booths that run along the walls, but his face is turned away from the other man, and he looks transfixed. Fortunately, Stevenson takes his cue and leans into him, speaking insistently.

It works. Eames is so intent on not looking at the stage – not looking at Arthur – that he almost misses their extractor's signal. He nods hastily, drops his untouched shot of tequila back on the counter, and leaves quietly for one of the hidden exits. Phillips's accidental control over the dream hasn't changed the maze they prepared topside – the one Arthur is maintaining. The paths are the same, albeit set in a slightly changed décor, and the safe is right where it's supposed to be.

Opening it is a matter of seconds. After all, the safe is a symbol. It isn't actually supposed to hold.

Eames browses through the pages he finds, memorizes the names and sums of money Saito's firm sent them here for, and puts the files back in. It's not really necessary, but he remembers with vivid clarity how he escaped being killed in Sicily only because he managed to make the mark believe that the robbery had yet to take place. It's been something of a reflex ever since.

He's sitting at their rendezvous point a while later when Arthur joins him.

He's put his shirt back on. Sweat stains his armpits and his collar. Eames is sure that his lower back is just as damp – just as hot.

"Did they make you take off all this lovely leather?" he teases, but his voice is tight, and there's a tension at the back of his throat, one that makes him swallow repeatedly.

"Fuck off," Arthur growls. He sits down against the opposite wall. His face is flushed, his hair in disarray. He probably feels humiliated and angry, and Eames shouldn't play with fire.

He really shouldn't.

"You looked good enough to eat back there," he practically purrs, chest on fire with a mix of jealousy, anger and lust. "Did anyone try to? Eat you, I mean?"

"Eames, I swear, if you don't shut the fuck up _right now_-"

"Yeah, what will you do, Arthur? What will you _do_?"

And for a second it's all there is. They glare at each other in silence. Arthur is panting ever-so-slightly, because of the heat or because he's just not accustomed to being shoved so much – being shoved like that.

Arthur is no pushover, though. Never has been, never will be.

Eames is not surprised to see him get up slowly and walk towards him. He tenses, expecting a blow, expecting a gun in his face.

He doesn't expect Arthur to drop in his lap and crash their lips together.

His stupor doesn't last. Soon he has Arthur's chest crushed against him, the heat of his skin everywhere around him. Arthur's hands grip his hair and pull, while he bites and licks at him. Eames moans, unabashed, filled with arousal and fierce kind of contentment – the kind that comes from watching other men watch Arthur when they have _no right to_.

Their position is awkward, with Eames sitting on the floor and Arthur straddling him. He notices absently that he has dropped his forge; gone is the bleak-faced businessman and his grey scratchy suit. He feels silk against his chest, right where Arthur's damp torso is rubbing against his own. His hands hold Arthur's waist with the will to bruise and own.

"You looked so good on that stage," he says on Arthur's lips, pressing the words on them like a brand.

"Shut up."

"Arthur, God, you are going to _ruin_ me-"

Arthur says something along the lines of "that's the idea, yeah," but the ground suddenly shifts under them. Faint screams echo through the maze, and the frames hanging from the walls fall down one by one, shattering in mid-air.

"Shit," Arthur says.

"Yeah," Eames breathes. He fumbles for his gun. When he aims for the other's face, the point man doesn't even flinch.

"We're going to finish this when we get back," he just says, and Arthur smirks, looking more wild and attractive than he's ever seen him.

Choking back a groan, Eames fires.


End file.
